The motel was cheap and half-lit, tucked between a boarded-up gas station and a liquor store that never closed. You didn’t ask why she picked it. You didn’t have to. Places like this didn’t ask questions or keep records. You didn’t feel safe there, not exactly — but somehow, with Laura in the room, you felt less in danger.

She sat on the edge of the bed, unwrapping the bandage on her arm with quiet precision. The gash beneath looked deep, angry, still seeping red. You flinched at the sight, but she didn’t. Her face didn’t change, not even a twitch.

“You need stitches?” you asked, voice rough from smoke and adrenaline.

She didn’t look up. “It’ll close.”

You nodded slowly, unsure what else to say. The fight was over. The man who tried to kill you — his blood was still drying on your shoe. You hadn’t slept. She hadn’t either.

She finally glanced at you. “Why’d you freeze?”

You blinked. “What?”

“In the alley,” she said flatly. “You froze. You knew he was coming. You didn’t move.”

You stared at the peeling wallpaper. “I guess I thought maybe if I stayed still, he’d change his mind.”

Laura made a noise — a soft, bitter laugh. “That’s not how they work. People like him. They don’t change their minds. They just burn slower.”

You didn’t reply. There was no point. She was right.

A silence fell between you, broken only by the hum of the flickering lamp. You pulled your knees up on the bed opposite hers, arms wrapped around your legs. You still hadn’t washed your face. You still smelled like fear.

“You don’t talk much,” you said finally.

She glanced over again. “Neither do you.”

You shrugged. “Guess we’re a good match.”

Laura raised an eyebrow. “You trying to flirt?”

You flushed, heat rising to your face before you could help it. “No. I just… I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

Her voice softened — barely, but enough to notice. “You didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Neither did you,” you replied before you could stop yourself.

The words hung there, heavier than the air in the room. She looked away. Her jaw tightened, the kind of tension that didn’t come from pain but from memory. You knew that look. You’d worn it yourself, many nights — lying in your dorm bed, trying not to remember things that still screamed in silence.

“Do they ever stop?” you asked.

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “The voices?”

You nodded.

Laura was quiet for a long time. Then she said, “They get quieter. Not because they leave. Just because… you stop expecting anyone else to silence them.”

You didn’t know why, but that made your chest ache. It sounded like giving up, but it didn’t feel like it. It felt like survival.

“I still see their faces,” you whispered. “My foster mom. My little sister. When they were screaming. When it started burning.”

Laura didn’t look at you, but her hand moved — slowly, without force — until it rested beside yours on the bed. She didn’t take it. Just let it be there, close enough if you wanted to reach.

“I was made in a lab,” she said. “They gave me a name like a serial number. Trained me to kill things smaller than me. Then things bigger.”

You turned your head. “Did you like it?”

“No,” she said. “But I was good at it.”

Your hand inched toward hers. She didn’t pull away.

“You ever wish you were someone else?” you asked.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “All the time.”

You sat there like that for a while, the air between you finally softening. You didn’t kiss. You didn’t cry. You just existed in the same broken silence. And that, for once, felt like more than enough.

She finally stood. “Get some rest.”

You glanced up. “Where are you going?”

Laura paused at the door, then looked over her shoulder. “Nowhere. Just turning off the light.”

And as she flicked it off and walked back to the bed, she left the door unlocked.

Just in case you ever needed to leave — or in case you wanted to stay.